


Smoke Signals

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [29]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Accidents, Airplane Crashes, Airplanes, BAMF Spike, Dark, Graphic Description, Hurt Spike, Other, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 22:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4540233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike’s stomach dropped out from under him as the plane, a sickening rollercoaster in the sky, dropped sharply and plummeted. Down, down, down towards the rocky terrain below. He could imagine the automatic, mechanical voice in the cock pit, the pilots struggling for control, loudly saying WHOOP WHOOP PULL UP WHOOP WHOOP PULL UP as their path steeped down and the altitude monitor rocketed lower and lower. A light coming on, tasteless orange in the sea of controls, labeled ENGINE FAILURE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke Signals

**Author's Note:**

> I've kind of been in a writing slump, been a little burned out to be honest (which is horrible when you still want to write XD), but I found some good music and sat my butt down and wrote this. Hope you enjoy. :)  
> Also, I'd like you guys to know that I read and adore every comment that's posted (even if I don't respond). When I get that email, saying that someone's taken the time to tell me they liked what I wrote? Damn, I light up like a Christmas tree! So, I just wanted you guys to know that any comment is appreciated with my entire heart--it makes my day, makes my *week*. I know I harp on about this a lot, but in reality comments are why I write--that rush when someone finds pleasure in reading what I put so much effort into... Yeah. Anyway, I'll shut up now (I truly don't try to be annoying) but just keep that in mind, yeah? Thank you so, so much for all the love you have bestowed upon my stories. Truly, thank you. :)
> 
> A/N: I do not own Flashpoint, nor the characters. I do not make a profit from my writing. However, it's still my writing so please don't repost anywhere. Thanks!

It was supposed to be a normal flight; a four hour trip on a medium sized aircraft carrying nearly ninety persons. From his relatives house back to Toronto; back to Ed, Sam and Greg. Back to the SRU, back to Babycakes, back to riot shields and wire cutters and laughs and questionable wrestling. A normal flight back to his normal surroundings, that was all. No problems, nothing he’d had any worries about.

That’s how they all started out, the bomb tech guessed.

Heavy and guttural, the rumbling of the plane dug under Spike’s skin and held onto his bones for traction; it shook his knees—though his feet were pressed hard against the floor—and distorted his spine as it refused to stay in line. The sound was playing on his ligaments like they were violin strings, and his jaw clenched tighter as the night sky lit up in a brazen orange hue.

The left engine had become a torch in the inky darkness, the tendrils of flame inching up the sleek white wing as panicked voices barked and brayed. There were prayers, there were confused children slowly catching on to the atmosphere in the aircraft, but most of all there was the loud noise of trapped people watching as they flew closer to demise.

Spike’s stomach dropped out from under him as the plane, a sickening rollercoaster in the sky, dropped sharply and plummeted. Down, down, down towards the rocky terrain below. He could imagine the automatic, mechanical voice in the cock pit, the pilots struggling for control, loudly saying _WHOOP WHOOP PULL UP WHOOP WHOOP PULL UP_ as their path steeped down and the altitude monitor rocketed lower and lower. A light coming on, tasteless orange in the sea of controls, labeled **ENGINE FAILURE**.

Heart locked tight in fear, Spike clenched his hands around the armrests as they leveled out—but just barely. The bomb tech could still feel, in the pit of his stomach and aching of his lungs, that they were going down too fast. His ears popped, and it made him wince as the voices and screams around him got distorted a bit—and the woman next to him was in tears, a picture clutched between her fingers that were pale with pressure.

Rocking and off balance with the loss of one engine, the plane banked hard—the brunette closed his eyes, listing off every HTML code or bomb type that came to mind, and tried to keep his shaky breathing from collapsing into hyperventilating.

Again, his stomach wedged up towards his diaphragm as the airliner fell out of the sky with a spectacular streak of bronze; the fiery engine plummeting along with the crippled ‘craft. This time, though, the plane didn’t gain back some balance—it only tipped forward more, the nose threatening to plunge into a dive.

The screams were deafening, rising high above the flight attendant’s yells, as the ground grew closer and they all knew it—could see their soon-to-be grave out the window, the mass of trees and shadows awaiting the metal tomb. The woman beside him, bottom jaw trembling, was sobbing broken “ _I love you_ ”s to a name Spike didn’t know—but the bomb tech kept his own names and declarations silent. It wouldn’t change anything, and they already knew. It would only be torture.

~~It would only be an admission to the probable outcome.~~

There was the stench of vomit and urine in the confined space, a testament to the fear, as the screams grew louder—and Spike wondered how their voices hadn’t cut out yet, as he kept his own mouth gritted shut. He wanted to scream, wanted to cry, but he was shocked still by the velocity of the plane fumbling towards the landscape below.

In his head, the pilots were scrambling for altitude and a level ‘craft while the voice ominously chanted onward: _WHOOP WHOOP PULL UP. **TERRAIN**. WHOOP WHOOP PULL UP. **TERRIAN**._

Towards the front of the fuselage, barley audible let alone discernable, one of the flight attendants ordered them to brace for impact—and Spike immediately curled up into the position, following the demand without hesitation just like he would have done for Greg or Ed’s commands in the field.

It wasn’t like the movies, there was no silence as the plane slipped the last few hundred feet out of the air, because the screams and shouts and cries continued on. The bomb tech curled his hands tight, a strained whimper passing his lips, as the hysterics were punched out of the passengers’ lungs with the impact of the nose and majority of the plane’s body ripped into the trees.

The lights had gone out a while ago, but Spike’s eyes were firmly closed so he didn’t have the mere possibility of seeing the metal rip apart—leaving three distinct sections—but he sure as hell heard it. It sliced open with a yawn, and there was the faint howls of pain as metal caught flesh in both fragments and haggard edges—and people were ripped out of their seats by the jarring impact.

He heard the lady next to him hit the window hard, so close to his ears that he heard the snap of her spine over the deafening screech of metal giving way.

With a horrifying tilt of his world, Spike felt gravity shift on him as the fuselage rolled over twice before coming to a rest back, slanted, on its belly—and Spike’s hands were holding onto the handles of his seat for dear life as his seatbelt kept him suspended, but the deceased woman next to him slipped from her bindings and rolled uncontrollably and unrestrained.

It wasn’t the nausea in his stomach that got him—it was the silence.

With numb fingers, the bomb tech freed himself from the belt across his lap and stumbled his way into the aisle on shaky legs.

“Is anyone hurt?” Spike called, and it sounded dumb on his lips but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. The lady he’d spent the flight next to didn’t have a pulse, and her head was at a terrible angle—she was sprawled across a row of seats, and the people she was resting on didn’t have pulses, either.

He checked nearly fifty throats, stomach curling into tighter knots with each press, but none had any life pulsing under the flesh.

Then he smelled the bitter, acidic jet-fuel fumes wafting closer, pulsing from the airliner like lifeblood, and he fumbled his way out of the ‘craft’s main body—the corpses left behind in their seats, all forms of trauma on display, because there were no pulses.

And no pulse meant no life.

He had tried to close their eyes, give some type of semblance of peace, but their lids wouldn’t shut—it was too early, their bodies still warm, so they peered sightlessly ahead. Hands clutching loved ones in the seats next to them, tear tracks cooling on their cheeks.

There was nothing left, so the bomb tech slipped out of the plane’s ruined interior and onto the ground below—and noticing the lack of wings, nearly falling to his knees when he realized he could see all the way through the plane and to the tail that was yards away.

It was a trek to the rest of the plane, and something was tearing at his side but the shock was keeping his mind muddled—he could feel the blood on his face, on his side. He was alive.

The cockpit, resting crooked on its side, gave him no hope; the window was gone, and Spike managed to crawl inside but he wished he hadn’t.

The pilot’s legs were crushed under the controls, and there was blood all over the woman’s face from where her face had impacted. She didn’t have a pulse. The co-pilot, fingers still wrapped around some tool Spike didn’t recognize, had a shard of the resistant glass buried in his shoulder and bruises on his face and throat. He didn’t have a pulse either.

Crawling out, hand going to his aching side but mind not registering the pain with danger, the brunette lurched towards the plane’s tail and heaved himself up—and he heard whimpering, light like a bell in the quiet.

“Hello?” He called, walking down the short aisle while looking for the sound’s owner—a hand reached out and tiny fingers skimmed his pants leg.

Turning on a dime, and kneeling down, Spike tried to not sob when he saw the little girl resting limp in her seat like a broken doll—there was a large piece of metal jammed just under her ribs, far too much dark blood staining her clothes. Her pulse was weak, her eyes glassy, and her skin was pale. ~~There was no way she’d make it.~~

“Hey,” He smiled, hiding the agony he felt inside, “You’re going to be okay, alright?” He lied, taking the girl’s hands in his and casting a quick gaze at the man and woman sitting in the seats next to the girl. There was no way they had survived. “My name’s Spike.”

The girl, green eyes hazy, nodded and held as tight as she could onto the bomb tech’s hands, and she went to speak but all that left was a wet cough.

“You want to hear a story?” He asked, and the girl gave a tiny smile and nodded—and Spike threw himself into it, grinning and speaking loudly, going on and on until he felt the grip around his hands loosen and saw the little girl’s eyes slip shut—pulse slowly halting, breaths now gone.

With a withheld scream, Spike let his head fall and rest on the girl’s knees—still holding her hands in his, and he would have cried but he didn’t have any tears left.

With detached actions, the brunette checked the other passengers—but he didn’t find anyone alive.

Climbing back onto the ground, Spike nearly leapt into the air when he heard the sharp crackle of fire—and watched as the fuselage he’d escaped slowly went up in flames. A trail, leading from the smoldering engine a few feet away from the debris, was blazing as it connected with the fuel soaking the ground.

It was a cremation.

Turning away, Spike gagged and spat up bile—clutching at his side as he walked further away from the fire. He had blood on his hand, but it wasn’t the girl’s.

Resting against a tree a fair distance away, the bomb tech pulled up his shirt and examined the wound—a large, horizontal gash against his side that was bleeding sluggishly. Applying pressure and gritting at the feeling it brought on, Spike leaned his head back against the bark and watched the night sky fill with smoke.

It was only a fluke of fate that his body wasn’t burning to ash, feeding the fire and polluting the air.

It was only a fluke of fate that he wasn’t _dead_.

* * *

 

An hour or so later—Spike assumed, he didn’t really now; he’d only been peering at the sky blankly—the chopper appeared from behind the plume of black smoke and the bomb tech watched as it landed in a clear patch away from the debris.

Figures jumped out, but the brunette didn’t move. Didn’t yell. Didn’t wave his arms. He just sat still, confused gaze turning to the dying fire that had consumed the fuselage and the victims locked inside.

They spotted him pretty quick, and someone was racing over to him— _Sam? What was Sam doing here?_ —and tearing at his clothes. The blonde’s familiar voice was shouting in his ear, _Spike, oh my god, Spike!_ , asking what injuries he had, but Spike continued to lean back against the rough bark and peered at the wreckage until his lover stepped into his line of sight.

“They’re all dead,” Spike told the sniper with confusion, “I checked—no one made it.”

“ _You_ made it, Spike,” Sam told him reverently, feverishly, “ _You_ are alive. You’re okay, buddy.”

The bomb tech nodded, not truly listening, and let Sam haul him into the blonde’s arms without complaints—which made the sniper tense, one of his hands cupping over the brunette’s wound tighter.

“I’m going to take you home—don’t look, Spike, eyes on me.”

“Already saw it all,” Spike told him quietly as he craned his head around Sam’s neck so he could peer at the wreckage, “I was in the fuselage. No one was alive in there, so I went to the cock pit and the tail. Saw it all.”

The blonde’s hands gripped him tighter at the mention of the now-scorched middle of the plane, but Spike gave in and hid his face in the crook of his lover’s neck before he was hauled onto the rescue chopper.

It was a blur, after that, of hands holding him down and stinging agony washing the slash on his side—of Sam’s face hovering above his, telling him that Greg and Ed were waiting as the bomb tech twisted away from the hands trying to press a bandage against his inflamed wound.

“Then we’ll go home, right?” Spike asked, a mere whisper overpowered by the chopper’s blades.

“You’ve got to go to the hospital first, Spikey. We’ve got to make sure you’re okay, and then you can go home—alright?”

“I just want to go home,” Spike said as quietly as he could, brown eyes exhausted, and Sam’s own closed for a second until the man regained his composure and gave the bomb tech a reassuring smile.

“Soon, I _promise_ , Spike.”

The brunette wanted to beg, but he nodded and let Sam’s arms wrap around him—shivering, pressing into the body heat even after they tucked a blanket around his frame.

Sam was talking on the phone, soothing words and raspy, awed statements mixed in with his low voice, and slowly it lulled Spike to sleep—his face pressed into Sam’s chest, blanket covering him securely, and strong arms keeping him pressed tight to his lover.

* * *

 

When Spike woke up, groggy and blinking unfocusedly, it was as the chopper landed on the solid ground and the loud drone of the blades cut off. The doors were slid open, and Spike felt Sam slide out from behind him—the bomb tech’s hand went out, grabbing for anything familiar, but the blonde took it and squeezed before letting go.

“I’m just going to get on the ground, and then the paramedic’s going to hand you down to me,” The sniper explained, and Spike’s drained brain didn’t understand but he went along with it anyway.

Soon, after nearly going into a panic attack at the feeling of being lowered down the few feet to Sam’s arms too quickly— _“Hey! Slow!”_ —he was back in his lover’s grasp and leaned against him limply.

Greg and Ed were there in an instant, their hands on him as if to make sure he was real, and the negotiator took the brunette from Sam’s arms as the ambulance slowly crawled towards them, awaiting it’s passenger.

“After the hospital, we can go home?” Spike asked, curling close to Greg’s chest and getting a worried look from all three lover’s at the lack of his complaining.

“Yeah, buddy,” Ed said thickly, “Then we can go home.”

Spike only nodded, eyes still glazed over.

* * *

 

Home, as usual, was Greg’s house—and Spike ambled to the bed, crawling in immediately after peeling off his hospital scrubs. He didn’t have anything on, but he didn’t find himself caring. Spike just wanted to sleep.

Greg and Ed crawled in after him, bracketing their younger lover, while Sam laid atop the brunette’s chest—Spike gladly accepted the comforting weight pressing down on his ribs and stomach and hip.

Hands traced over muscle and slight bone protrusions, retracing patterns and creating new ones as Spike nuzzled into the warmth and sunk further into the bed—managing to pull his lovers even closer before he made a satisfied noise and closed his eyes.

In hours he’d wake up, the little girl’s gaze in his mind or the fire burning behind his eyelids, but the hands were always there—comforting little circles being drawn on his skin every time he woke up, little words of security articulated into his ears.

In hours he’d wake up, tepid bodies and still arteries under his fingertips, in the one place he’d ever felt truly safe.

And nothing, not event his, could take that feeling away from him.


End file.
